Grief
by TheWolfAndTheRose99-2
Summary: Sister fic to The Five Stages (Jack coping with Rose's departure) - please read. Doctor's POV, how he grieves for rose. multi-chaptered because yay WARNING: SELF HARM, DEPRESSION 10/Rose Undertone
1. Chapter 1

The Five Stages: The Doctor

_**Hey, I wrote the one from The Doctor's point of view. And I'm not gonna lie, it's been hard, emotionally to capture. Please read my five stages Jack fic. And one thing. I am so sorry.**_

He stands in the console room, his mouth still half open. He… he was so close, to saying it. Their final goodbye. But he missed it, by mere seconds. The sun, it burnt up and the link shut off. Such cruel timing.

He wonders what is happening on that beach. Is she crying? He hopes not, he hates it when Rose cries. He hopes that Jackie is comforting her, or Mickey, or Pete. He was surprised, when he heard Jackie was pregnant, they must have been there a few months already. But now that reveal flies out of his mind, and all he can think of is her. Her last words to him,

"I-I love you"

He knew, really. All along. He just chose not to think of it, it was hard, because he loved her twice as much. He loved that one little pink and yellow human twice as much as he has ever loved anyone. Not his wife, back on Gallifrey, not any of his friends. He loved all of them, dearly, but Rose was special. It had to be her, who stole his hearts. It had to have been.

Fate somehow dealt them a kindness, a softer blow. Because he knows that any longer, and he would've told her. That he loved her. And then he would have kissed her and held her and loved her in every sense of the word. And then she would age, ever so quickly and perish. She would've lasted, maximum another sixty years. Probably less, given their lifestyle. He knows it would've been harder, her death.

But this feels like a death all the same. Officially, back on earth, she is dead which hurts to think about. Jackie too. He hates to imagine their family burying two empty coffins. He knows there will be a small service for the two of them, which doesn't feel right to him. He wants to fly the TARDIS there right now, and scream at everyone that she isn't dead. That she's safe, and happy, and fine. That's what he hopes anyway.

He furiously wipes the tears off his face, and kicks the jump seat. It hurts, but he almost kind of likes it. He feels bad afterwards though, for the TARDIS. He knows she would've felt that, and feels guilty. It isn't her fault that Rose's gone. But the TARDIS is good to him, and makes no passing remark. She knows that her thief is in immense pain right now. She makes plans to take him somewhere quiet, to sort his feelings. Perhaps the abandoned moon of Adelysson, she wonders. But then suddenly, she feels the particles in her heart lighting up and igniting. Something is happening.

The Doctor looks up, out of nowhere, a bride has appeared. Her hair is almost as red as her angry face, which worries him deeply. Does he really never get a day off? The wound that Rose has left in his heart is still fresh, he hasn't had time to patch over it. The woman in the dress shouts, and hollers a load of nonsense about a woman called Nerys, but he isn't paying that much attention. Her voice sort of fades into the background. But then, oh no. Rose's shirt, slung over the coral. She loved leaving her things about. He remembers, yesterday evening, her leaving it there.

_Rose left the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, clutching the soft purple material in her hand. It had been nice, wearing it again. She hadn't worn it since the Cassandra incident, so it was nice to have all the buttons done up properly._

_Her bare feet padded through the corridor looking for her bedroom. It took her two minuets to realise the TARDIS is messing with her. She sighed, the TARDIS was clearly directing her to the console room. God knows what for, considering she isn't at all dressed._

_She looked up to the ceiling and frowned, before turning through the familiar corridor. She reached the console room quicker than expected, and is shocked to see The Doctor sitting there in the jump seat, still. He looked incredibly sad. She creeps up, and notices his face. It looked like he'd been crying._

"_D-Doctor," she said softly, coming closer "Are you okay?"_

_The Doctor's eyes flittered up, wondering what she was doing here. He froze when he realised she wasn't wearing any clothes. Just a towel. Rose. Naked. Here. His mind was thinking some extremely impure timelord thoughts right now._

"_Rose, didn't expect to see you here, at this er, fine hour. Any particular reason you aren't, erm, dressed?" he stuttered, his eyes still hadn't left her body._

"_Just got out of the shower," she explained, holding the shirt up in her hands before slinging it over the nearest coral strut. "She's worried about you, I think. What's up?" she asked, sitting next to him on the seat. His breath hitched a little. Her skin was still damp and warm from the hot shower, pressed against him._

"_Just, no. it's nothing. Honestly, don't worry about it." He said, trying to keep his eyes at her face level, no lower. God why did things get so short when people sat down? He felt guilty for… ogling his companion like this, but oh Rassilion her legs were practically endless._

"_Clearly something's wrong," she said, pulling him out of his thought "You can tell me anything, remember doctor?"_

_He sighed, she had won him over. Yet again. "Just thinking, again about what the beast said. I nearly lost you the other day, in 2012. I could've been trapped forever if it wasn't for you." He said, his arm subconsciously going around her small frame. He blushed realising what he had just done, but he knew he couldn't take it back now. Besides, she felt __**right**__. "I just don't want to lose you" he admitted, turning to face her._

"_Don't be silly. It's like I said, they keep on trying to split us up, but they never ever will." She said, smiling at him, before kissing his cheek lightly and standing up. "I suppose I should go and get my jimjams on. How about a movie, fifteen minuets in the library?" she asked, giving him that grin. He grinned back. "Sounds perfect."_

oOo

He misses that. Those little moments with her. He misses everything about her, her eyes, her laugh, her lips. She's barely been gone a day, yet he already wishes she was here, with him. Donna's lovely, she really is. A little abrasive, and more than a little loud. She's a little rough around the edges, but she means well. She'd make a good companion.

He throws himself into the adventure, the trill of the unknown. Solving the mystery, like he's always done. It numbs the pain a little, keeping busy.

He's surprised by the Racnoss Empress, he really is. He was pretty sure they were extinct. Just another reminder of the time war for him. Another unhealed wound. Rose was healing it rapidly, but now she was gone, he could feel it slowly beginning to tear again, as he watched the Racnoss cackling evilly. He knew, of course, what he had to do. Not that he thought it was a good thing. He gave her the one chance, and she refused it.

Which is unfortunate for her, because he is so, so angry. Angry that she survived the time war. Angry that she wants to unleash her brood onto the human race. Angry that Lance betrayed Donna. And he is so, so angry that Rose is gone.

So he stands, on the ledge above the Racnoss, and he makes it happen. Fires swell and the water pours down from above them. His face stays stony the whole time. He watches her, drown and burn all at the same time, with her children. She keeps crying out for them, but he can't stop, not now. He almost feels like a different person. Like a god, choosing who lives and who dies, raining down fire. But then he turns his gaze to Donna, and she looks so afraid.

"Okay Doctor, that's it. You can stop now!"

So he does. He gives one final look to the perished corpse of the Racnoss, and then turns back to look to Donna. "Come on," he says "Time I got you out of here."

Of course she refuses the offer to travel with him, but she does surprise him, by telling him to find someone. Because he needs someone to stop him. But he doesn't want to stop, and nobody ever could stop him, not really. Except for Rose, but now, she was dead. Practically dead, sealed off in a parallel universe, and nothing else mattered. She was gone and so was his happiness

He wonders what he can do to get her back. But he soon realises that he can't. He said it himself.

_Am I ever gonna see you again?_

_You can't_

He can't, ever see her again. Just the thought of that makes him sink down onto the floor of the console, and bury his head in his hands, his knees tucked in tightly. He sobs quietly into his hands, the sleeves of his jacket becoming increasingly damp. So he slides it off his bony shoulders, and throws it aside. His suit jacket too. He suddenly feels hot, and clammy.

Leaving the jacket and the blazer disregarded on the floor, he gets up and heads in a walk down the corridor. He doesn't even know where he's going, but he lets the TARDIS guide him. She often points him towards her room, but he can't do that to himself, not yet. The time will come where he will sit in her room for hours and stare at the four walls, breathing in her scent, frozen in time. But that time is not yet.

So instead, he wanders, for what feels like hours, until he comes to a bathroom. Its one of the old ones, bright white tile everywhere, with blue accents. It is a nice bathroom, he has to say. He stands over the sink, and splashes some cold water over his face, and looking in the mirror. He looks a wreck. Dark circles under his eyes, his hair is distressed. He can't remember when he last slept, not really. The day with Donna tired him out, and he hand slept since before canary warf anyway.

He looks to the side at the vast shower, which looks tempting. Within seconds the tap is switched off, and he's unbuttoning his shirt and slipping it off. Unbuckling his belt, and slipping his trousers down his hips. He stands there looking at himself in the mirror a bit. He has never studied this body fully before. He's tall and skinny, that's obvious, but he does have muscle. He's lean and athletic, not frail and bony. He's never noticed that mole on his thigh before.

He steps into the shower and lets the water wash over him. He had hoped it would have given him some kind of sensation, any other kind of feeling than heartbreak, but it doesn't. he runs his head under the shower and back out again, before reaching for the dial. He turns the water a little hotter, but all he can think about is her.

A little hotter, her eyes. The way they sparkle. The way they used to sparkle, anyway.

A little hotter, and it's her hair. Peroxide blonde, had never looked better on anyone else.

A little hotter, not he sees her lips. Round, and pink and soft.

A little hotter, and hotter, until he stops thinking of her. He isn't thinking of anything anymore, just the feel of the water. He expects it to feel painful on his skin, but it almost feels peaceful. His mind is white, and blank, and for once, her face doesn't float into his subconscious. A few seconds later, he realises what he's actually doing. He leaps out of the shower, only to be standing in front of the mirror once again. His skin is bright red, burnt. He hesitantly touches his chest, and hisses. It's painful, and fresh burns. He wonders how hot that water was. He looks at the dial to see that he's turned it up to maximum. That water is almost at boiling point. He wonders why the TARDIS hadn't intervened, before realising somewhere through the whole debacle, he's sealed her out of that room. Stopped her control. Why didn't he remember doing that.

He decides to take a brief cool bath next, because he doesn't trust himself in the shower. He can't lose control like that again, when he has responsibilities to take care of in the universe. No, he decides a bath is much safer.

Laying in the cool water, watching as his skins reddish tinge starts to fade, he wonders what that was back there. What was he doing? He doesn't know. His mind is all jumbled and the only thing that bleeds through is her, her laugh, her smile, her eyes. Rose Marion Tyler flits through his mind at rapid pace, and he has to close his eyes because his head is starting to hurt. When he opens them again, he regrets the décor of the bathroom. The bright white tiles are harsh against his eyes. He needs to get out, now. The straight lines of blue tiling are beginning to swirl around in a psychedelic fashion, and he can't even make a sound. He needs to get out.

Everything begins to blur as he steps out of the bath, and grabs a towel hanging on a nearby rack. He wraps it round his waist hastily, hissing as he pulls it too tight against his tender skin. He stumbles into the hallway, and all he sees is her.

A thousand different versions of Rose, skipping through the hallway. Smiling, and laughing and chatting about books and movies. One has an ipod, and is singing along to the tune. He hears her voice so loud his has to cover his ears. He doesn't know anything, except that he can't take this anymore. He opens the first door to his left, thankful that it appears to be his. He collapses onto the bed, covering his ears and screwing up his face because he can still see and hear her. She's in the room with him. One Rose, sitting on the bed, stroking the pattern of the duvet. Another reading aloud from one of his Charles dickens books. One sits at the desk, wobbly writing her name in Gallifreyan, just like he taught her. Another is just sitting in the chair in the corner, laughing hysterically like he's said something hilarious.

Before he knows what he's doing he reaches out the drawers next to his bed. He keeps a swiss army knife in there, for boredom and practicality. He barely registers the knife hitting the skin of his arm, except her voice quietens a little when he feels the cool steel on his skin. He cuts gently at first, and the Rose's seem to fade, slowly. It feels good, and he smiles softly, his eyes still squeezed shut. He makes three more incisions in a line across his forearm, before passing out into a dull, black sleep.

oOo

When he awakens, he's surprised to see red blood on the sheet beside him. There is a worrying amount of it too. He's confused as to what happened before he passed out, but then as he lifts his arm to turn over, he is met by only pain. He looks and sees the four long cuts, striped across his left forearm. "I did this?" he says aloud, turning is arm over, examining it.

But then it all comes back in flashes. The shower, the heat burning his sensitive flesh and then the bath. The tiles swirling, distorting his vision. Rose, in the corridor, in his room, in his mind. And then the blade of the knife, made it all disappear. Made it feel better. Made him feel good.

He can't believe now, afterwards, what he's done. He refuses to use the term self-harm, although that's what it us, completely. He can't believe he's that weak. Her passing, its broken him more than he imagined. But at the same time, it makes him feel good, the fresh wounds, barely beginning to heal. He wants them to go, but also wants more all the same.

Then he realises what he just thought, and furiously stands up, trying to pull himself together. He reaches into the wardrobe, and pulls on his blue suit before grabbing a roll of bandage off his desk, and wrapping it around his arm quickly, before putting his undershirt on. Then his button up shirt, because he thinks the more layers he puts in-between him and his body, makes what happened back there, not real.

His skin is still damaged but he tries to ignore the pain as he hastily dresses. He tries to pretend he doesn't like the feeling when it hurts.

_**Unlike the Jack Harness version, I'm gonna make this multi chaptered. Because it's going to be a little longer. Still only a three to four chapter story, but yeah. This has been hard for me to write, and my emotions have been more than a little jumbled. But I hope it turned out okay. xx**_


	2. Chapter 2

He's met someone, Martha Jones, and she's nice. Brilliant- really, but he can't lie and say she isn't a distraction. Running about with Martha, it's taken _her_ off his mind, just a little. He's stopped saying her name, in his head, because it hurts too much. Because every time he says it, he remembers that night. It was barely two weeks ago, and the scars on his arm are completely faded, but he still hasn't gotten into the shower since. Baths, yes, baths are much, much safer. Even if he has to put up with Martha banging on the door, saying he takes longer than she does to get ready.

He puts on the same multiple layers each day, vest, undershirt, shirt, blazer and then his long coat. He can't lie and say it doesn't get hot under there, but it helps. He hasn't touched anything near sharp since, and avoids the kitchen.

Tonight, he walks through the corridors heading to the kitchen. Martha's off exploring, and he loves the look she gets in her eyes when she discovers a new room, which is often given the TARDIS' vast interior. It intrigues him why the TARDIS has taken Martha in so well, when she is still emotionally scarred from Rose's departure. At night, in his head he can hear his beloved ship calling out for her, the Bad Wolf. He wasn't aware, until then, that tardises could actually have nightmares. But still, she has accepted Martha inside with open doors. He did ask why, but the ship stayed secretive, and just said she would have a greater purpose someday. He doesn't dwell on it for long.

He enters the kitchen, and turns the hob on, discarding his jacket and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and undershirt, exposing his toned arms. _She_ had gotten him into the habit of snacking on quick-fix meals of beans on toast and boiled eggs in the afternoon. He reaches into the cupboard and pulls out a can of Heinz, still, undoubtedly the best baked beans in the universe. He smiles a little, thinking of her eating them, sometimes straight out of the tin.

He pulls open the drawer, and pretends not to flinch a little at the sight of the sharp knives in the corner. Instead, he flits his eyes away and pulls out the tin opener, before shutting the drawer hastily. He sticks it onto the lid, putting on a little too much pressure and winces. His skin, especially on his hands is still a little sore from the other unspeakable incident. He suffers through the pain, and quickly winds the lid off. Perhaps, a little too quickly, as the round sheet of sharp metal falls off, landing on his finger. He goes to pick it up with his other hand, when it slices into the skin of his right thumb.

He looks at the cut, barely a scrape with the fresh red blood pouring out of it. It looks so pure, so _human_; he's tempted to see more of it. _No_ he immediately thinks _no, not again_.

But before he can process another thought, his left hand is grabbing the tin lid and pulling it across the skin of his right wrist. The blood slowly rises to the surface, and trickles out. The cut is hardly light, this time, cutting deep into his skin. He pulls the metal across the length of his forearm a few times, and he likes it. He likes it a lot. His face hasn't shifted from the slightly horrified look, but his hands do the speaking for him. They're excited and shaking a little. Suddenly his brain takes over, and the blood-soaked lid is being thrown across the room, hitting the wall and sliding into the bin. He rushes over to the tap, and runs his arm underneath the fresh, cold water. It stings, but so do his eyes. He can feel tears brimming in his eyes, but chooses to ignore them. The blood continues to flow so he switches the tap off and pulls his sleeves down hastily, wiping his eyes furiously.

He dumps the can of beans straight into the bin, he isn't hungry anymore.

He walks out of the kitchen quickly, clutching his forearm. Martha, of course, choses this time to come out of whichever room she's just found. "Doctor, are you alright?" she says. She looks worried, but the last thing he wants is for her to find out about this. How cowardly he's being.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." He says, desperately trying to head in the opposite direction.

"You-you're bleeding?" she says, noticing the way he clutches his arm. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, Martha I'm fine. I cut my thumb on the lid of the baked beans, that's all."

Martha's face softens into a smile, and he breathes out for the first time in a while. Thank god for the respitory bypass "Daft old time lord, do you need a plaster or anything? Stitches?"

He doesn't reply, so she steps further and tries to reach out to his hand. He violently jerks it back, and her hands fly back to her sides. The doctor can see she looks hurt, but he can't let her see this. "Just- just leave it Martha! It's nothing, I'm fine!" he says, before turning and speeding down the corridor, leaving a confused Martha behind.

He runs straight to his bedroom, and through to the en suite bathroom. He runs his arm against the tap once again, before wiping it gently with tissue and wrapping it with the roll of bandage. He does the same to his thumb, with great difficulty, being right handed. He runs the tap with cold water, and throws some onto his face, and undoes a few of the top buttons on his shirt. "Stop it doctor, just stop it" he say to himself, clutching the sides of the sink and staring into the mirror at the unfamiliar man in the reflection. He doesn't look anything like himself, recently. His eyes are dull and his skin is dry. "You're fine. You're stronger than this" he says. But then he looks down to his arm, and thinks that, perhaps he isn't.

He feels stupid for behaving like such a weak, pathetic coward. That's what he is, a coward, he's said it himself.

_Killer or coward?_

_Coward. Any day._

It's true, really. That's all he is, a coward. Not this great hero that _she_ seemed to see. She looked at him as some sort of legend, but all he really was. A coward. How she could love someone as weak as he baffled him. She was strong, and beautiful, and smart. And she still is, however she's doing.

He wonders how she feels, right now, on the other side of the white wall. He hopes she's gotten over him, and hopes that she's okay. He hopes that her mother is there for her, and he really _hopes_ that she hasn't resorted to the release that he has.

But it's infectious, the cutting. He likes the feel of cool metal across his skin. He furiously rips the bandage off his arm and stares at the cuts made. Some are deep, some not so much, but they all look _so beautiful._ So pure, and effortless. The lost blood makes his skin look deathly pale and the cuts are still red raw from the dried blood. They still bleed a little when he tenses and as he watches the Scarlett red drops fall into the white porcelain sink, he can almost feel a smile on his face.

oOo

he goes straight to bed after re bandaging his arm. He knows that he owes Martha some form of an apology, but right now he doesn't trust himself to leave the room. The TARDIS has safety proofed it, removing all sharp objects, which is helpful, but he still feels antsy. The room is too humid, and he has too many layers on as he lays there in the bed. He tosses and turns repeatedly, before sighing angrily and pulling his t-shirt under his head. The pyjama bottoms go too, until he's just laying there in his boxers, fingers twitching against the sheets. Black sheets today, as not to show the blood.

Subconsciously, he drags his finger across the skin of his abdomen, shivering at the feel of his nails scraping across the skin. He digs in, applying just a little more pressure, and just a little more, until a red mark appears. He hopes that can satisfy him, but eventually, he realises that he needs to feel the cut, the blade, the blood.

It's like an addiction.

Worse than any other. Worse than drink or drugs, because he isn't addicted to the blades themselves, just the feeling he gets as the blood rushes through his skin. Before he knows what he's doing, his nails have clawed so hard, that blood trickles out lightly. But this time, he doesn't pull back, appalled and disgusted. He does it again, and the feeling is almost pleasurable. His eyes close and his face screws up, breaths becoming ragged. He can't even control it, not tonight.

He scratches, and digs his fingernails into his skin hard, panting when he's finished. His stomach is a bloody mess but he doesn't know how to stop. Now, he can feel the chill in the room, so he pulls his t-shirt back on, and sits up, hugging his legs into himself. It hurts, as his stomach stretches to a sitting position, but he knows the flesh should heal soon. He buries his face in his hands.

_What am I doing?_ He thinks

He can feel the tears gathering in his eyes, but he can't even stop them from falling this time. Everything hurts, his mind, his stomach, his arm, his hearts. He looks to the side of the room, and in the dark sees a picture on the dresser. He doesn't even need to see the details to know it's of them. He's seen the picture one hundred times, maybe more, over the past two weeks. It's from when they went to New Earth, the second time. The first time, she wasn't really there, so he took her to a posh party where they dressed up and acted posh, Lord and Lady Tyler for the night. He remembers she looked beautiful in her red dress, and he fished out his dinner tux for the first time in this incarnation.

Someone snapped a picture of them, mid conversation. He'd said something funny, and she was laughing. The picture is so beautiful, and natural. Her smile wide, teeth showing, although she'd always hated them. He thought every part of her was beautiful, and insisted on keeping the photograph. He didn't tell her he had framed it in his bedroom.

He looks over at it now, and debates whether to stand up and reach for it. Deciding against it, he just pulls the duvet up to his chin, and runs his hand through his hair. He knew he needed to stop, but he couldn't. It isn't fair, not to him, feeling like this. He's a timelord for god's sake, he should be stronger than this, but somehow he isn't. that one human has ripped down his defences so much; he doesn't quite know how he can go on without her.

As he settles down to try and sleep that night, he lets her name cross his mind. _Rose Tyler_. But as he does it once, her name is suddenly all he thinks of the whole night. _Rose Tyler, Rose Tyler, Rose Tyler._ It flies through his mind, beating through his skull. He starts to see her again, all around the room, laughing and smiling and talking passionately. She's still there when he closes his eyes, lying on his side in a foetal position, his hands digging into his skull, willing the hallucinations to stop. But he still sees her one last time, before he falls asleep. Only this time, she's crying. She appears to be in a bathroom, mascara running down her face in flows. He metaphorically steps back, to get a better view of the situation. She's sitting on the floor, a bottle of vodka on her left, a knife clutched in her hand. He sees her cut herself repeatedly as she cries harder, the blood fresh on her once tanned skin. Her hair looks dirty and dead and her eyes are dull, like his.

"No! Rose!" he cries, but she can't hear him, and keeps going. Stopping occasionally to take a swig from the glass bottle. Half of its gone already. He can't bear it, but for some reasons the visions won't stop.

The last thing he remembers before falling into an uncomfortable sleep is the red drops of blood falling onto the white marble tiles.


End file.
